Suppressed
by Fayrie Dust
Summary: When John joins Sherlock at a rave to follow a case, John accidentally drinks something he really shouldn't have.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter One**_

_**I have a lead on the Mandy case. Meet me at 42 Wallow Street, at Black Castle, the night club. I believe the next murder will occur there. -SH**_

John had just arrived home after a long day at the clinic. As he read the text from Sherlock, he collapsed onto his armchair, groaning in frustration. He was not very keen on having to go across the city to do another case. Even though, this case was at least a 7 on Sherlock's interest scale, which was pretty good these days. A fifteen year old girl named Elizabeth had been killed while under the influence of a drug called MDMA, otherwise known by its street name "Mandy". She had been suffocated. What made this interesting for Sherlock was that this girl was not the only one murdered. There had been a string of girls around the same age occurring over the past month. These girls were all wearing similar clothing, all with short blonde hair and a lip piercing. Their bodies were scattered across London, at different club locations. The bodies were found behind the buildings or in the bathrooms. This screamed serial killer. Serial killers were Sherlock's favorite.

_**Please wear something appropriate. It's a rave. I don't want you embarrassing me. -SH**_

Well what the hell do you wear at a rave anyway? Leather trousers?

John went upstairs to his closet and sighed heavily. He definitely did not have anything that would be deemed "appropriate". The only clothing he found that would be remotely acceptable was a dark blue V-neck shirt, faded dark jeans, and a leather jacket…He'd be so out of place, but he was definitely _not _going shopping to buy leather trousers or something else ridiculous that he would only wear once. Surely the leather jacket would suffice.

At approximately 7:00pm, John found himself at The Black Castle, a club in a particularly rough part of London. He got past the bouncer who grinned at him maniacally, paid admission, and clumsily wrapped his little plastic bracelet around his wrist. As he made his way in, the smell of cologne, perfume, body odor and sugar polluted the air. Neon lights flashed everywhere, the hypnotic and repetitive music was pounding in his ears. Half-naked men and women with multicolored hair were dancing with sweat and glitter dripping off of them. Varying ages surrounded him, mixed evenly about. Teenagers, college students, and middle-agers were all here, so he had no reason to be embarrassed about his age. All kinds of couples were snogging and feeling each other up—heterosexual couples and homosexual couples alike. John, like any other _normal_ human being, was feeling the consequences of it all—arousal, and the need to touch somebody, but seeing as that they were on a case he could not very well find a girl he fancied and begin dancing the night away, regardless of how awkwardly he danced. This was business, not pleasure. But it wasn't the women that had caught his attention this time.

Sherlock was hurriedly coming up to John—he must have spotted him from afar. He was dressed quite abnormally from what he would usually wear, and quite honestly he was barely recognizable. He had straightened his hair, which was a shock to see his normally curly hair flattened this way. His hair appeared longer this way, and he styled it in such a way that his bangs slightly covered his left eye. He had also added a bit of volumeizer so it would appear livelier than simply lying flat on his head. Instead of his dressy trousers, he was wearing tight black jeans of all things, which hugged his derriere in such a way that you could make out the exact shape of it. No button down shirt tonight either—he wore a black tank top that did not cover his stomach underneath a mesh long-sleeve top with a hood that really served no purpose. And to top it off, he was wearing bloody _eyeliner _with red glittery _eye shadow_, and fucking black _nail polish_.

Sherlock Holmes looked positively, flamboyantly gay. And it was fucking hot. He only went this far for a case if he was particularly interested or excited about it, which would explain why he was so gun-ho about getting into his character of a gay club-goer. But why did he have to look like _that? _It was quite unfair, and making John's breathing a little more erratic than he was comfortable. He was suddenly very glad for the high temperature of the club so he could pass off the sweating as an environmental side effect.

Sherlock stared at John and shook his head. "Did you not understand what I meant when I said 'dress appropriately'?"

John looked himself over. "Well, I don't normally go clubbing, I don't have clothes for this sort of scene."

Sherlock sounded exasperated. "I don't go clubbing regularly either, yet I'm still dressed the part. And besides," he sighed. "This is a rave. It's a little different from the usual clubbing nights."

"Whatever, I still don't see the problem. I'm decent enough," John said, crossing his arms, trying desperately to breathe normally with the sight of Sherlock before him.

Irritated, Sherlock looked at his watch. 7:12pm. "Alright, it should be a while before we actually need to get to business. Come here."

Before John could protest, Sherlock had grabbed him by the wrist and started dragging him to the bathroom of the club. The door was covered in stickers of crazy looking cartoon characters and varying forms of profanity, and the red paint was wearing off. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to dress you properly," Sherlock said as-a-matter-factly, while patting the messenger bag he had at his side. "I've prepared for this."

"_Dress me?"_ John said, making a choking sound in his throat. "Wha-wha…no! Just give me the clothes and I can dress myself."

"Nonsense, you wouldn't do it right, you've never worn clothes like this before."

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock continued to drag him. "And you have?"

"On occasion, when the situation calls for it. I have worn clothes like this in the past."

"You mean for cases?"

"No John, I like flaunting my arse around and having people drool all over it because I'm a sexy bitch," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Of course for a bloody case, you idiot."

_Well, at least he's aware of the effect that outfit has._

Sherlock shoved john into one of the roomier stalls, and it was at this point that John became aware of the blood rushing down to his crotch—and he began to panic. Sherlock had probably already felt his quickening pulse as he had grabbed his wrist. It could possibly be passed off as nervousness for suddenly being dragged off into a bathroom, but it wouldn't be hard to figure out what was going on in John's pants once Sherlock had him alone.

"No! Wait a minute!" John protested. Sherlock was not listening—he was on a mission. He pushed John down onto the toilet and quickly locked the door behind him. "What if someone comes in and hears us in here?" John said, suddenly assessing how this situation might look to outsiders.

"Your point?" Sherlock said, now pulling John's leather coat off. "People come back here all the time to do various activities, including changing clothing or sexual endeavors. Let them believe we're gay lovers or something of the sort, it will be a brilliant cover."

John was flabbergasted. "Gay lovers?" he whispered hoarsely. "What the hell—"

Sherlock promptly covered John's mouth with his hand and whispered "Please, John, do shut up and be compliant."

John swallowed, staring directly at Sherlock now. He was a bit confused as to how he was feeling right now, staring at Sherlock with the makeup and tight clothing. I mean, yeah sure, his roommate _was _quite attractive for a male, but it shouldn't mean that John needs to get all flustered about this. Come on, it was Sherlock, of all people…

While John stared blankly at Sherlock's face, the detective got to work. He yanked John's shirt over his head and chucked it over his shoulder, focusing intently on getting John "properly dressed", as he had put it. When Sherlock placed his hands at John's belt, he stopped.

_Oh, shit._

Sherlock's mouth opened a little bit before looking at John carefully, studying him. He definitely had noticed the bulge in John's pants now. John looked at him pleadingly and said "Please delete this."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "…Right then."

Sherlock carefully took off John's belt, being more careful than before. John's legs were shaking as Sherlock's hands became dangerously close to his crotch area.

"Wh-why do you have to help me get dressed? I'm a grown man."

"I bought leather trousers for you. They will be difficult to put on by yourself." Sherlock said. "And, quite frankly, I'm a little impatient. It will be much faster if I put them on you myself. No need to feel embarrassed."

With that, Sherlock suddenly had John's jeans down to his knees. John had to remind himself to breathe, and that he was _not _having a sexual encounter, that he was _not_ supposed to be enjoying this, and that he was _not _gay, and that Sherlock did _not_ look sexy as all hell in rave clothing. No. Not at all. His dick was just confused is all because he hadn't had a good shagging in a few odd months, right? Right.

Sherlock had successfully pulled off the jeans, along with John's shoes. He was now dressed in only his socks and pants, sitting on the toilet, avoiding eye contact with the detective. Because now, it was plain to see that John's shaft was very interested in having Sherlock touch it.

By the grace of some higher power, Sherlock had the decency to not comment on the bulge. John continued to look away, praying that maybe, just maybe Sherlock hadn't noticed. John was now focusing on the handwriting on the stalls. Various phone numbers were scribbled on it, pictures of dicks and tits covered in cartoon come. Not really what he needed to be looking at right now…

It only took Sherlock about a minute or two to slide the leather trousers up John's legs—they were bloody tight, but they should be comfortable enough. He looked up at John, who was still focusing on the walls of the stall, when he saw that all was left was to button up the trousers. Sherlock, being the curious person that he is, decided to gently brush the bulge with his palm before buttoning John's trousers like nothing had happened. John had shivered and let out a groan.

"What was…?" John began to say, but by the look on Sherlock's face, he could only assume it was an accidental touch.

"What was what?" Sherlock said, now handing John a colorful neon shirt.

"N...nothing," John said, blushing furiously and pulling the shirt on.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John had found their way back out of the bathroom, John still blushing and struggling with the tightness in his pants. Sherlock had gone off and was flirting with a guy with electric blue hair and piercings all over his face. He was getting uncomfortably close to Sherlock, and if John were over there he's get between them and—<p>

And _what,_ exactly? Where had that thought even come from? Sherlock was doing his job, even if it entailed rubbing that guy's thigh and leaning in to whisper in his ear and…and...

John turned away and walked over to the concession stand to go and get himself some water. It was bloody fucking hot in there, and watching Sherlock was only making the temperature within him rise. He took a few more sips out of his water bottle before closing the top, when suddenly a girl crashed right into him, making him drop his bottle and the other bottles she had been carrying.

"Oops! Sorry!" said the girl. She had rainbow colored hair and was sweating profusely. She couldn't have been any more than sixteen.

"No no, quite alright miss," he said, trying to act polite. It wasn't her fault, he should have paid more attention, but he was really quite on edge. Anything could set him off right now, and he didn't have the patience to be dealing with hyperactive rave kids.

They bent over to pick up the water bottles, and John couldn't figure out which was his. She looked at him apologetically and handed him a bottle. "Here, this one hasn't been drunk yet. I'm sorry!" She smiled and dashed off.

John rolled his eyes and was about to drink some more water when Sherlock suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

"John," Sherlock said, eyes glowing. "Follow me. I think I've solved this case."

**_~to be continued...`_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_**A/N: Hey guys. Just wanted to give you guys a little information on the drug "MDMA" (3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine), otherwise known by its street name "Mandy" (UK) and "Molly" (US). MDMA is a "good-feel" drug that makes you super talkative, horny, and happy all-around. Your inhibitions and secrets you want to keep tend to go out the window, and you also tend to talk about things that re extremely important to you. Long speeches/confessions are very common, and you'll sometimes even forget what you're talking about/what you're doing right in the middle of it. For some people, this can be very therapeutic, and other just downright embarrassing. It can also make you feel light-headed, silly, and nauseated. Also, I do not support anyone going out and using this drug. In the U.S. it is a Schedule I drug and you can get in big doo-doo. **_

Sherlock had indeed solved the case.

The two of them were abale to catch the man in the act, strangling some poor girl in a storage room. Luckily, John was able to stabilize her while Sherlock chased after the killer, restrained him, and phoned Lestrade. The killer, named Jameson, ended up being a disappointment. Sherlock was hoping for a more calculated psychopath rather than some demented, horny man with a thing for teenagers.

Jameson was not really anyone all that interesting, according to Sherlock. Sherlock called him a "pathetic lay-about who had an inappropriate relationship coupled with an obsession with a fifteen year old girl". The girl was named Wendy, who was killed by the man after she had decided to break things off. He got her high on MDMA, raped her, and then strangled her to death. Elizabeth, the second victim, had been a friend of hers, and the man had gotten her high on the drugs and strangled her to keep reliving the murder, like a twisted sexual fantasy. The other girls had barely known Wendy at all. Apparently, Sherlock was able to gather details about the girls and about Jameson from the man with blue hair he had been hitting on in the club, much to John's distaste.

Sherlock was grumbling and chewing on his fingernail, which was still painted black. He was not satisfied with the case, but John happy enough to know that more teenagers wouldn't have to suffer. He chuckled as he opened up his water bottle and took a big swig. It tasted a bit off, but he supposed it was because it was now room temperature as opposed to ice cold. In several more gulps, he managed to drink almost the whole bottle.

Sherlock angrily stomped up the stairs and threw himself on the sofa when they got to the flat. "A bloody pathetic stalker, that's all he was," he said, mumbling into a pillow. "Getting all excited over a man who has greasy fingers and weighs 143 kilograms and lives with his mother."

John laughed as he looked at his roommate sprawled on the couch—he looked like a child throwing a tantrum, despite the rather sexy clothing he was wearing. Which, unfortunately, he was still being affected by.

"Well," he said, leaning on the table and setting his bottle there. "I'm going to take a shower. Good night, Sherlock."

A groan came from Sherlock, but he waved his hand at him.

John chuckled, and went up to his room to get his clothes to change into for a shower. Halfway up the stairs, John began to lose his balance and he had to catch himself against the wall. Everything was starting to feel light. He thought for a moment that maybe he was just hungry, but his stomach didn't feel empty at all. He focused on standing up, and he found that it was actually quite easy to stand, despite the light-headedness he felt. He also realized that he did not want to be alone right now. In fact, Sherlock is probably lonely right now. My goodness, what was he thinking? He needed to go downstairs and make sure Sherlock wasn't alone, that's such a dreadful state to be in.

John was now giggling to himself, but he couldn't figure out why. Nor did he really care. He just focused on going down the stairs, and looked around the room for Sherlock.

Sherlock had moved from the couch over to the armchair, where he was now watching the telly. That was usually a bad sign—if he was watching crap telly, he was most undeniably bored. And when Sherlock gets bored, pouches of white powder are often purchased. Well now, we couldn't have that could we?

Sherlock looked over at John. He was walking over to him with a stupid looking grin on his face. "What's gotten into you? Is there something on my face?"

John started giggling, and suddenly he didn't feel like walking the distance over to Sherlock. Instead, he decided to collapse onto the ground and start giggling even more. His entire body felt soft and warm—even the floor felt amazingly comfortable.

Sherlock immediately jumped up and went over to look at John's face. "John? John—Look at me, John!" he said. He got down on his knees and grabbed John's chin with his hand, forcing him to look at his face. As Sherlock feared, John's eyes were completely black.

John looked deeply into John's eyes, which still had eyeliner and eye shadow surrounding them. He was also still wearing the mesh shirt and tank top.

"Your eyes are pretty," John said through his gritted teeth. He was smiling like a dumb little schoolgirl, and he kept chucking every few seconds or so. "Why are they so pretty? They're like…perfect little pretty marbles."

"You're high, aren't you, John?"

John just continued to giggle.

"John, focus._ Focus_. How high are you?"

John pursed his lips and began to think. "About 162cm, I think, last time I checked."

Sherlock tried not to chuckle. His roommate was high, and acting quite adorable because of it. Sherlock thought for a moment, letting go of John's chin before speaking again.

"Eyes dilated. Sudden euphoria. Teeth grinding. Curious." Sherlock looked up at the bottle on the table, and made an annoyed sound. "John," he said, now looking at the doctor who was making strange dog-paddle movements in the air. "John, where did you get that bottle?"

John stood up a little, trying desperately to focus on Sherlock. God, he was sexy. He just wanted to take him upstairs, tear his clothes off and—

"Wh...whaaa…" he groaned to himself, suddenly embarrassed, and throwing himself down on the kitchen floor again. These thoughts were getting worse by the moment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was no point trying to talk to John at this point and time. He needed to get John over to a bed where he couldn't hurt himself. It was very likely that he had never been high before, and therefore didn't know how to handle himself. Sherlock pulled John into his arms and lifted carefully, getting him to his feet. John was slumped up against Sherlock's chest, and he was noticeably inhaling a lot heavier now than earlier. John was…sniffing him?

"You smell like Sherlock," John said. "Sherlock smells good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he got John to turn around and start walking towards his room. No point in dragging him up the stairs, just need to get him to sleep so he could run some tests to determine what John was on.

Suddenly John turned around again and hugged Sherlock around his neck, laughing jubilantly. Sherlock was understandably confused, wondering how he got mixed up in this situation. Not that he felt at all burdened by this—he actually rather liked the fact that John was hugging him voluntarily and smiling instead of yelling and calling him an arse and a total git. Which he had interpreted as avoidance on John's part.

"You remind me of Sherlock," John said. "Except Sherlock doesn't look this gay," John said, being very genuine and sure of himself. "Have you heard of him? He's rather famous now." John had his head resting against Sherlock's chest now, taking in another deep breath.

"Oh, he doesn't look this gay?" Sherlock chuckled, deciding to indulge in this silliness. He start walking, trying to push John into his room so he could lay down. John was complying, or rather just not caring that we was walking backwards while hanging onto Sherlock's neck. "How gay would you say he looked?"

Sherlock managed to get him to the bed, and promptly shoved him off so John would fall over onto the large bed with gray covers. All of a sudden, John scrambled up onto the bed once he realized where he was and buried his head into the pillows, sighing contentedly. "This is Sherlock's bed," he said, rather childishly.

Sherlock found himself gulping. Sherlock obviously had not forgotten how desperate John had looked at back at Black Castle. He was so embarrassed to be turned on by Sherlock—he couldn't even admit it to himself. Maybe, though, he'd be able to get John to talk about his feelings for once. Even if he was high out of his mind.

"John…" Sherlock climbed onto the bed and grabbed John's face again, so he'd look at him. "I'm Sherlock. You're talking to Sherlock. Remember?"

John squinted his eyes for a moment before replying. His eyes were wide. "Wha-wha…why are you dressed like that?"

"Forgotten already?" Sherlock chuckled. "It was for a case, do you recall?"

John shook his head. "Nope."

Sherlock smiled a bit and just laughed. "Are you at least aware that you are high?"

"Am I?" John said, looking at his hands and looking perplexed. His eyes started to wander over to Sherlock, who was laying on the bed now, facing John, with his hand propped under his head for support. He looked quite…delectable…especially in that mesh shirt with the tank top underneath.

John stood up for a moment. "Err…I've got to go…someplace else." He started trying to climb off the bed, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.

"No. You're staying right here, John. You have an unknown substance running through your veins and I must keep you here under observation."

"I can't go to my room?" John said, looking pitiful. Sherlock gulped.

"No. I need you to stay here. In fact, while you're still cognizant, could you please tell me everything you have consumed in the last three hours?"

John groaned. "I have not eaten or drank anything…except that water."

"Right, the water," Sherlock said, expecting that answer. "Tell me about the water."

"Hmm. Well, I bought a water at the concession within the club. It was bloody hot in there, I needed water. Then there was this rainbow girl carrying water bottles and she ran into me and dropped her bottles and I couldn't tell which was mine so she handed me hers and I took it."

Sherlock put his hand to his forehead. "I find that a bit unsanitary, coming from a doctor," He sighed. "Drinking from a water bottle from a stranger. And you drank a good bit of that water bottle too. I know what was in that bottle."

"What's that?" John said, honestly curious.

"You're on that drug that the victims were on before they died. Mandy. It's safe enough, for all tense and purposes. Better than cocaine at any rate."

John laid back down on the pillow. "Huh. What are the effects?"

"You'll feel dizzy, friendly, happy, and aroused. For about two to three hours. I have no clue how much was actually in that water, so I cannot accurately deduce that. But based on your current behavior, amount of sweat, and current memory capacity, I can assume that you have taken approximately four points of MDMA, which equates to…"

John stopped listening as Sherlock started to go off into drug science. He was simply concentrating on Sherlock's cheekbones, and his eyes went down to his collarbone, which looked delicious. As his eyes began to wander, so did his hand. He was unaware of the fact that he was now trying to rub himself through the blasted leather pants he still had on—he couldn't even figure out how to undo them.

"…and with that amount of the product in your system, you could expect to…to…" Sherlock stopped rambling, eyes now fixed on John's hand, which was now furiously trying to figure out how to work off the buttons. John's eyes were still wandering all over Sherlock, never settling on one area of his body for too long. If he was aware of his attempts to masturbate right in front of Sherlock, he certainly did not care.

Sherlock could only blink in astonishment as he realized just what was happening, but he was not complaining. He merely reached out and pulled himself over to John, faces nearly touching.

"John," Sherlock said. "I would rather not take advantage of you right now, not in this state. Could you please refrain from touching yourself until you've come down?"

John exhaled deeply at that. Sherlock had intentions of taking advantage of him, and whatever that entailed, he wanted it. He had a slight nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him that he liked women, not men. However, his nether regions did not seem to understand this little fact.

"No," John breathed. "I don't want to wait."

Sherlock was about to protest, but John hand pushed onto him and was now straddling him, sitting just below his crotch.

"If I regret this, then it's my problem, not yours." John said. His eyes were still black, and he was sweating profusely from the drug's effects.

Sherlock sighed, defeated, and leaned up to pull John into a rough kiss.

_**~ to be continued**_


End file.
